


Overhang

by bunnyangel



Series: In This Reality [4]
Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: 911 Words, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s02e08 Buck Actually, Gun Violence, Hurt Evan "Buck" Buckley, M/M, Pre-Slash, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyangel/pseuds/bunnyangel
Summary: In this reality, Lola pulls the trigger.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Series: In This Reality [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146413
Comments: 10
Kudos: 317
Collections: 911: What's Your Word Count?





	Overhang

**Author's Note:**

> Pain-fed, beta-free flash fiction with exactly 911 words. =)

His name is being called.

What was he doing?

What _is_ he doing?

He feels both weightless and heavy, which is weird because--

"Buck!"

Ah, it's Eddie's voice. Eddie has a really nice voice. It's low and smooth--like really, really good Balvenie--and like really good scotch, he kinda wants to put his mouth on Eddie one day. Something about that is not a good idea, though.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm so sorry! Oh my god!"

A woman's voice--familiar, but...maybe not? She seems distraught. He's a firefighter. He should really help her and...oh, oh shit. He blinks at the ground some fifteen feet below him and remembers--

His rock had beat Eddie's scissors, which is funny cause he'd almost gone paper--except Eddie's got a tell a mile wide. It's adorable. So adorable. It's another secret he's squirreled away in the box labeled _Eddie Diaz: Do Not Touch_ , next to the mouthwatering firmness of his thighs or the super attractive way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he's super happy.

Anyway, he'd won and he'd harnessed up and he'd gone over the wall, feeling only a little bad because he's got both height and weight on Eddie, but _man_ , Eddie's definitely got the muscles. Really, _really_ nice muscles. Shh, shh. Secrets.

But how did he end up here? Here seems...really not good. Everything blurs and multiplies as he sways over what seems like--miles of gridlock and...bright yellow on asphalt? The deflated rescue cushion. Bobby and Athena. Hen and Chim. Eddie. Where's Eddie?

He cranes his neck, slowly, because movement sends jolts of pain lancing up and down his spine that stab directly into his brain _._ It's only offset by an itchy wetness underneath his helmet that's trickling down his temple.

The ragged remains of a bird's nest sits tucked underneath the far corner of the platform and Lola's face is crying above him, haloed by a too bright sky. The glint of the barrel of the gun that--oh, that _shot_ him is still in her hand.

It was a revolver. Maybe. Small barrel at least, so small caliber. The damage can't be too bad, right?

Eddie is...still calling his name.

He tries to lean back further to make eye contact, at least, but stops at the particularly vicious jab of pain that takes his breath away.

Funny, he's always figured he'd die in a fire, being a _firefighter_.

It was a pro--a really strong one--in his Cop vs Firefighter list. He'd been so very proud of that list, because the alternative had been a coin flip. In another life he might have been driving Athena up the wall as a rookie. He's not sure if that's Pro or Con.

He has no regrets, anyway. He's more than okay with Eddie safe and sound up above; that Lola didn't get shot for panicking. There was no malice in that desperate gaze, just an aching loneliness he'd tried, and failed, to empathize with.

And Lola is fine, if hysterical. He needs to help himself now.

He's awake, at least. There's still pain, which is...not so great, admittedly, but better than the alternative. His toes are maybe a little numb, but he swears they're moving. So that's...great.

He tries to raise his arms to grab his harness, but everything feels a little loose, a little wobbly. There's a heavy band of pressure around his chest growing steadily tighter.

Breathe. Panic is bad.

"Hang in there Buck!"

He's...hanging alright.

One slightly numb hand fumbles slowly in search of the hole in his body. He winces at both the bright flash of pain and the hot blood that trickles through his fingers.

Shh, everything's fine. He'll be okay.

He yells when he suddenly drops. The tension and abrupt pressure sends fire rippling through his torso with a rush of dizziness right behind. His vision whites out and he can't control it, can barely shift his head before there's a heave and a spasm and he's vomiting breakfast.

Everything hurts. He can't--he can't--

"Stop..." he slurs, a sob caught in his throat.

Vaguely, he recognizes what Eddie is doing, what he's _trying_ to do, but the descent is fraught with jerky starts and horrible stops. It's hell on his chest and even worse on his head and is _absolute agony_ on his spine. The world is a wavy, wobbly, angry mess--too bright and too loud and _too much_ by the time he hits solid ground. His legs collapse immediately under him and he folds like a rag doll.

There's the vibration of multiple footsteps. Something closes around his neck and then multiple hands are turning him over. He swallows desperately against the second surge of saliva and bile, struggling not to panic at the constriction of the C-collar. The familiar faces barely comfort from where they float above him.

"Hey, buddy. You're alright. Lemme see. Lemme see, Buck," Chim says, untangling his fingers and cutting away at his uniform.

His helmet is removed. Hen shines a light into his eyes and he hates her even if her hands are gentle at his head.

"Definite concussion."

He shudders when his chest is finally exposed and yells as the wound is prodded.

"Bullet still lodged. We gotta move. Three, two--"

He's rolled. The world rolls with him. Everything goes distant and then everything is gone, and so is he.

**Author's Note:**

> No, he's not dead.


End file.
